


Of Dornish Sun and Dragons

by isasolan



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bisexuality, F/M, Foe Yay, Heterosexual Sex, Jousting, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Male Homosociality, Male Slash, Peer Pressure, Please read with Pedro Pascal’s voice, Sexual Inexperience, Threesome - F/M/M, brothers-in-law
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-25 00:04:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1621829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isasolan/pseuds/isasolan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the Tourney at Storm's End (ca. 277 AC), Oberyn Martell jousts against Rhaegar Targaryen, his soon to be brother-in-law, and finds that he could teach him a thing or two before the wedding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Dornish Sun and Dragons

 

Oberyn finds Rhaegar Targaryen not in the Great Hall, not in the taverns, and not in the jousting grounds. The Crown Prince is perched on a crenel, his slender figure curled against the stone, and his eyes scanning the seas below with a vacant expression. He holds his harp in his hand, a silvery instrument so light it seems to snake against his arm. He does not play it, but his fingers stroke the neck absently. Like one would pet a cat.

 

"Your Grace," Oberyn calls, not raising his voice for fear of startling him, and sending him flying down the tower. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a Kingsguard moving closer, vigilant though unmenacing.

 

Rhaegar turns his head, his purple gaze so fiery Oberyn nearly takes a step back. Nearly.  "Prince Oberyn," he says, his tone pleasant, though the thinning of his lips betrays his displeasure to be approached.

 

"You do not train for the joust?" Oberyn asks, clenching his jaw at how absurd that question is. He is evidently not training. What part of sitting on a crenel counts as training?

 

"No." Rhaegar smiles as if mocking him, then turns his head to resume his contemplation of the waves. Taking the conversation to be over.

 

They met once before, as children. Oberyn's mother brought them to King's Landing for a celebration, he cannot recall which one. Rhaegar was a scowling, quiet child, more interested in reading than in playing games with Oberyn. He'd hated him.

 

"The last time we met," Oberyn says, hoping to put him more at ease, "I wanted nothing more than to smack you."

 

The Prince laughs and turns his head to face him again. "Did you?" he asks, raising a silver eyebrow. "Why didn't you?"

 

"My brother said they'd cut off my hand if I did."

 

Oberyn never found out whether that threat was likely to be carried. Knowing Aerys, it might have. It had deterred him from it; he needed his hand for sword-fighting.

 

Rhaegar's gaze sobers up, and he shakes his head. "You should have done it anyway. I was insufferable as a child."

 

Courtly manners call for Oberyn to say 'Not at all, Your Grace,' but he holds his tongue. Rhaegar does not seem to expect any reply of the sort, but he does not turn away this time. His gaze sets on Oberyn, as if truly noticing him for the first time. Sizing him up. The calm purple eyes linger on Oberyn's biceps that his tunic does not hide, lower to his waist, and come to a full stop around his crotch. Oberyn feels warm in the face. He's bedded men before, but none have looked at him so frankly, as if measuring him just from the folds of his breeches. But then Rhaegar continues his inspection, examining Oberyn's thighs and calves before shrugging.

 

"You may yet," he says, and Oberyn has not the faintest idea of what he speaks. "Smack me. Tomorrow, at the joust. We are the first lances."

 

Right, yes. The jousting.

 

"You are not a good jouster, Your Grace?" Oberyn asks, and clears his throat to mask his brief confusion.

 

"How impatient you are. You shall find out soon enough."

 

Rhaegar's words, though chastising, convey nothing but amusement.Oberyn steps closer. The sea breeze lifts the Prince's silvery hair in his direction and he is tempted, for a moment, to run his fingers on it. Or to swat it away. Rhaegar shifts on the crenel to make room for him, and Oberyn rests his elbows on the little space he's left him.

 

"You are of an age with me, are you not?"

 

"I'm a year your senior, Your Grace."

   

Targaryen features give Rhaegar a younger air. Instead of eighteen he looks not a day older than fifteen, slender and fair. Thin around the waist. Almost like a woman. Elia is fortunate. Very fortunate. Her prize-husband is so handsome few would hold his gaze without blushing. Men or women.

 

"You are to marry my sister," Oberyn says. What he came here to tell him.

 

"Am I, really?"

 

Rhaegar sounds so unsurpassed that Oberyn feels some irritation growing in him.

 

"Indeed. Elia Martell, Princess of Dorne. You're a very lucky man. I hope you realise that." That came out more biting than intended. He adds, "Your Grace," for good measure, though it likely is too late to amend it.

 

A faint frown wrinkles Rhaegar's brow. "Forgive my lack of enthusiasm, Prince Oberyn. My father has been finding me a bride for two years now. Last I heard it was to be one of the Tully girls. Or still the Lannister one, for all I know."

 

"It's being settled as we speak," Oberyn says, and his hand itches with the familiar ache of wanting to slap him across the face. How dare he dismiss Elia so.

 

"Settled, what a quaint description. Sanctioned and sealed, undoubtedly. And I, the blushing groom, will nod my approval and bed her."

 

"Listen, you..." Oberyn starts, and the Kingsguard moves closer. Close enough to make him rethink his next words. 'Callous brat' would not do. He drops his voice to a whisper. "You _pretty_ thing. If you ever do her wrong, I..."

 

Rhaegar leans in, so near to his face that Oberyn feels the warmth of his breath over his lips. "You'll what?"

 

The hand of the Kingsguard flies to the hilt of his sword. Oberyn bites his tongue.  "Pray you never find out," he hisses, and Rhaegar does not have time to reply before he leaves.

 

* * *

 

 

Rhaegar Targaryen comes find him in the morrow, just before the joust. He enters the stables clad in black and red, and Oberyn's entourage scrambles to bend the knee. Not Oberyn, who continues grooming his horse with slow, calculated gestures. Combing his steed's mane before a joust is one of those habits he cannot do away with. It calms him, and it calms the horse.

 

"Prince Oberyn," Rhaegar calls.

 

Oberyn can no longer avoid facing him. He glances at him, and his breath hitches. Despite his armour Rhaegar looks as slender as when curled on the crenels. Young. Feline-like with his thin smile. Up close, he stands a good head taller than Oberyn. Two thin tresses hold his silvery hair in place, leaving his brow uncovered and his purple eyes thrice as striking.

 

"A word with you?" the Prince asks, all smiles.

 

The servants hurry away before Oberyn can command them to stay. He sets the brush aside and pats the horse's neck when he whines in protest.  "Your Grace," he says, his tone icier than the Northern Winters.

 

Rhaegar's smile widens. "I come bearing an apology. It struck me, after you left, how atrociously I behaved when you spoke of your sister. Please do not take my words as a slight against her, but rather against my father's ways. I was introduced to Elia last night. I see now what you meant when you said I am a lucky man."

 

An apology, from Rhaegar Targaryen. Oberyn stands there, hand still on his horse and too dumbfounded to react. The lack of witnesses makes the words that much more private, that much more personal. For his ears alone, and not for the gossip of the court, or to feign friendship between the Houses.

 

Elia told him all about Rhaegar's visit before they went to sleep. _'He was charming_ ,' she said. She couldn't see what fault Oberyn found in him. ' _He does not want you_ ,' Oberyn had said, but his sister shook her head. ' _He will_ ,' she'd said, ' _and who is to say I want him?_ ' A pretty princeling to warm her bed, she'd have to be blind not to want him. He'd told her that, and Elia had laughed and said, ' _In my stead, you would be eager as well._ '

 

She is right. He would be, if he were told to bed Rhaegar Targaryen. He swallows, unable to bear the purple gaze without flushing.

 

"I accept your apology, Your Grace," Oberyn says, and bows lightly. He will not forget Rhaegar's slight, but courtesy and valour are not mutually exclusive.

 

The silver Prince reaches for Oberyn's shoulder and pats it in a friendly, familiar way. "We are to be good-brothers. Shall we strive to become friends as well?"

 

There is only so much Oberyn can feign. He tries to smile, but he knows it comes out a grimace instead. He clears his throat to save face, and manages a throaty, "Perhaps."

 

Rhaegar laughs and squeezes his shoulder briefly before letting go. "Very well. I will not say, 'Good  ride today,' for that would mean ill to me. But I can scarcely wait to fight you. They say your skill is unmatched."

 

The jousting! How does Oberyn manage to forget the tourney whenever in Rhaegar's presence? He clears his throat.

 

"If it were with swords we fought, Prince Rhaegar, I would advise you to forfeit before we even start. But we only joust today. You may yet have a chance of defeating me."

 

Rhaegar laughs at his cockiness instead of angering. "I was warned against Dornish arrogance. Beware! Defeat does not become those who think highly of themselves."

 

That grin! Oberyn would like to wipe it off his face. He picks up the brush again. The horse is skittish, impatient at having the grooming interrupted. Curse Rhaegar Targaryen and his apologies.

 

"You laugh, Your Grace," Oberyn says, stretching the limits of how biting he may sound when speaking to the Crown Prince. "You may not be smiling when the sun sets."

 

"I will hold you to that," Rhaegar answers, and the light reflects red and silver as he steps out of the stables.

 

It is Oberyn who does not smile. The dragon princeling breaks two lances on him with the ease of a maiden dancing in a garden. Graceful. Deadly. The wood crashes and splits on Oberyn's shield much to the delight of the crowd. They shout Rhaegar's name. Oberyn can see the royal seats through his visor, eyes blurred by the sweat. Elia's is wringing her hands together, her face pale with worry, though she is also smiling. At Rhaegar. For the first time since his squiring days, Oberyn is hit squarely on the chest and unhorsed. He screams when he lands. The dusts lifts around him and he coughs, the pain radiating from his left thigh all the way to his elbow. The horse continues on without him, the traitor.

 

He hears nothing at first, but the sounds return with deafening clarity. The crowd is cheering. They are cheering for Rhaegar. Sitting up is a painful affair, but Oberyn manages. He throws his helmet to the ground. Damned the dragon!

 

He hears the hoofs drawing nearer. _If he taunts me, I will slice his grin off_ , Oberyn thinks. But Rhaegar does not dismount.

 

"Are you unwell, Prince Oberyn? Shall I call for a Maester?" He sounds genuinely concerned, the fool.

 

"I need no Maester," Oberyn snarls and then his useless squires appear at this side to help him upright.

 

 

* * *

 

The party continues well after sundown. Oberyn can hear them in the Great Hall, singing and shouting. He can even hear the harp. Rhaegar Targaryen went on to defeat Arthur Dayne, Steffon Baratheon and Jason Mallister. He will face Ser Barristan in the final at midday. For now, he sings. The builders of Storm's End had either a penchant for gossip or used the lightest stones in the Seven Kingdoms, since Oberyn in his quarters can hear the merrymaking in the Great Hall as clearly as if he were there himself. Rhaegar's voice, clear and vibrant. He almost thinks, ' _like a woman's_ ,' but that isn't true. It has a low, rumbling edge pleasing to the ear even from a distance. The Stranger take him. The Stranger take him somewhere Oberyn cannot hear him.

 

The Maester offered him a potion for the pain. He'd refused it. But he can scarcely move his left arm without wincing, and the indignity of sitting through a dinner with Rhaegar's mocking grin on him has confined him to his room. Sulking, Elia said, and he hit her with a pillow. His left side is a long, painful bruise, black and purple. Rhaegar-coloured.

 

"The Sun has set, Oberyn, and I still smile."

 

The voice startles Oberyn awake, and his hand flies to his dagger. Cold fingers snake on his wrist to stop him. Panic. He throws a punch with his left arm, blindly, and it connects to the intruder's jaw. His mouth, rather. The soft skin leaves his knuckles wet, and at the same time he awakens enough to see he has struck the Crown Prince.

 

"Y-your Grace! What…?"

 

Rhaegar bends forward, holding his mouth. He never cried out. When he uncovers it, his lip is somewhat bloodied. Oberyn shivers, and then the hand strikes him, flat and sharp against his cheek. He blinks.

 

"Now we're even," the Dragon Prince says, wiping his own mouth with his sleeve. "But I should have known it would be foolish to startle you in your sleep."

 

What in Seven Hells is he doing there? Oberyn rubs his stinging cheek. He does not even recall falling asleep.

 

"Especially if you came here to gloat," he says.

 

Rhaegar smiles. "I did. But you deserved it, a little. You wanted me to forfeit."

 

Oberyn finds that he cannot hold his gaze and looks down. And then it dawns on him. Rhaegar Targaryen is sitting on the side of his bed, late at night, with no escort and no visible purpose. His long silver hair unbound, and his lips red where Oberyn struck him. If he were younger, he would harden at the thought. For now, he only kicks some cushions, and lies back more comfortably.

 

"I hope you do not pay these late-night visits to my sister," he says, an eyebrow raised.

 

Rhaegar's cheeks turn pink, his arrogance vanishing at once. "You mustn't fear for her virtue, I would do nothing of the sort."

 

Oberyn does not know what's funnier, the thought of fearing for Elia's virtue or the way the once-proud princeling is blushing like a maiden. This, at least, is familiar territory. It will keep the topic of Oberyn's earlier defeat far from their conversation.

 

"My sister's virtue is her own business. But what of yours? What maidens does the Crown Prince deflower when lurking in the corridors of the castle?"

 

Rhaegar's cheeks colour darker, but not from coyness. His eyes narrow, two thin slits of purple. He bends forward, his hand snaking on Oberyn's collar to pull him closer, and he shakes him.

 

"I am not that kind of man. I am not like my father!“

 

King Aerys has a fondness for young girls, it is said, when he is not mistreating his own wife. Oberyn is so surprised at the outburst that the first words that cross his lips are an apology.

 

"Sorry. I am sorry. Of course you are not. I meant only to tease. Good-naturedly. I did not think it would be a shameful affair up here, I lie with maidens often and it isn't a scandal."

 

Well. Most of the time it isn't. He'd nearly forgotten how those not from Dorne are so hung up on virtue and attach so many rules to their bedding habits.

 

"But I wager the maidens you lie with are willing to do so, and not ravished by force," Rhaegar says, stares squarely at Oberyn's mouth, and lets go of his collar.

 

"They are willing," Oberyn says, his throat dry from the fire in the Prince's gaze when it scorched his lips. "I've yet to meet one not desperate to bed me."

 

Rhaegar lets out a most un-princely sound as he snorts and rolls his eyes. "Is that a bit like when you thought you would certainly defeat me, before I unhorsed you?"

 

Oberyn feels the blood rushing to his head, but he swallows his anger. He deserves this, doesn't he. Doran and Elia never let him hear the end of it when he fails at doing something. Elia calls it ' _the punishment of the arrogant_.'

 

"A bit," he admits. "But they still want me. The ladies..." He pauses, and then adds, "and the men."

 

His last words hang in the silence of the room. Rhaegar raises a silver eyebrow. He also swallows visibly. Oberyn stares at the round bulge on the Prince's throat, moving up and down with fascinating slowness.

 

"You lie with men too?"

 

"Of course. You don't?"

 

Oberyn knows their customs frown on this. They frown on everything, it seems. But he still feigns surprise, if only to see how Rhaegar's cheeks colour again.

 

"I do not," he says, and then leans closer to Oberyn with a sly grin, either fully ignorant or fully aware of how he is invading his space. "But not for lack of opportunities."

 

Oberyn locks gazes with him, and does not move one inch. Rhaegar smells of a subtle perfume he's only encountered in Essos. Passion fruit, they call it. But then Rhaegar shifts nearer, and Oberyn realises it's only shaving soap, plain and bland.

 

"What does that mean?" he asks, his voice husky. He allows his glance to shift to Rhaegar's thin, reddened lips.

 

"It means, that while I lack your prowess for the matters of the bed, I often find myself afflicted with, what did you call it? Men and women desperate to bed me. Ladies hide it better. But the men?" Rhaegar laughs, his cheeks still flushed. "Some of my knights long to slide in my bed. I see it in their eyes."

 

Oberyn nods, so captivated with the playful, purple gaze that he shivers with delight.

 

"I see it in your eyes, too," Rhaegar says, and then stands up, leaving the bed and the room as quietly as he came, and Oberyn harder than he's ever been in years.

 

 

* * *

 

It's only fair, Oberyn thinks, that he repays the arrogant Prince a visit when he is defeated. Ser Barristan beat him in the final joust, and Rhaegar Targaryen bit the dust. Oberyn cheered and cheered on his feet until Elia elbowed him in the ribs. The bruised ribs, to remind him to behave. The dent in Oberyn's pride was well worth the price of seeing Rhaegar's scowl when he removed his helmet. The Prince had still bowed before his rival when he was proclaimed champion, his charming smile flawlessly genuine. Arrogant but charming. Honourable, even. The Crown Prince is a strange creature.

 

Oberyn finds him in the baths of the castle, open pools in a tall-ceiling room with arches reminiscent of Lysene baths. Rhaegar sits with water up to his chest in the middle of the largest tank, as if on a throne, regal and grave, and showing only mild annoyance at the servants fussing around him. And yet the vacant, displeased look in his eyes lets on that his loss still stings. Oberyn grins.

 

"Your Grace," he says as he enters, startling the servants with his intrusion.

 

Rhaegar, however, returns his grin. "Leave us," he tells his retinue with a wave of his hand.

 

"But Your Grace..." his Kingsguard protests.

 

"Leave. Us," Rhaegar repeats, and only a fool would disobey such a commanding tone.

 

Oberyn sits himself on the edge of the pool, a leg tucked under his knee. Not far from Rhaegar. He dips a hand in the warm water, his gaze never leaving the Prince. A throbbing bruise has formed on the side of his chest where he took the hit, earlier. Oberyn's is already turning blue.

 

"I came to see if you smiled," he teases.

 

Rhaegar does smile at this. Lazily, as if reluctant to grant him a privilege. "I do. But only to see you've come for your revenge."

 

"Actually... I was hoping to continue the conversation you so rudely interrupted last night."

 

Rhaegar chuckles and slides in the pool to be closer to him, leaving ripples in his wake. Oberyn can make out the outline of his slender, nude body in the water. He comes to a stop so near him that his wet silver locks form a puddle by Oberyn's thigh.  "What conversation is that?“ he asks, tilting his head.

 

Oberyn shifts, forbidding himself to stare at the drops glistening down his chest. He looks at Rhaegar's face instead. At his eyes.  "The one where you confessed your appalling inexperience at bedding men," he says, managing to keep his tone even despite the tease. "...Your Grace."

 

Rhaegar's skin is flushed from the bath, but Oberyn sees his face reddening more. He lets out a short laugh.  "Not just men, Prince Oberyn. I've yet to bed women as well."

 

Oberyn stares at him, ready to laugh at the joke, but then he realises this is no jest. Rhaegar, while embarrassed, is absolutely serious. The Crown Prince, at eighteen years of age, ignorant like a pious maiden. He gasps.

 

"It cannot be..." Oberyn says, running a hand on his own hair. "You're telling me that you, the eldest son of the King, have never bedded anyone, male or female?" Rhaegar shakes his head, shrugs. "But how? ...Why? Surely there is no shortage of suitable partners for you? Whores, even?"

 

Rhaegar frowns and grimaces in disgust. "Whores! I have no interest in bedding whores. The Book said..." He does not finish his sentence and bites his lips as if annoyed with himself. He looks at Oberyn, his eyes fierce once again. "I am not destined to bed whores. I shall father no bastards, only trueborn children for the Dragon."

 

What book? What dragon? Oberyn has the unpleasant sensation they are no longer having the same conversation. He clears his throat.

 

"Even then. You are to wed my sister soon. Do you truly mean to say you will join her in bed with no prior knowledge of... sex?" The word is crude, out of place. "Knowing nothing of a woman's body? Of how to please her?"

 

The deep blush on Rhaegar's cheeks is unmistakable, as is his mortified scowl. "I am not entirely ignorant. I've read books about it. I know what is expected of me."

 

"Books! He's read a book." Oberyn throws his head back, unable to hold back a loud laugh despite knowing how disrespectful it is. "Your Grace... Prince Rhaegar. You cannot learn these things from a book. Come to my chambers. I can arrange a woman for you."

 

"I am promised to your sister," Rhaegar hisses. "Surely you see why it is unbecoming I go a-whoring with you?"

 

"They need not be whores. I could find a respectable Dornish lady to school you, nice and patient. And it is precisely for my sister's sake I insist you do this."

 

Rhaegar scoffs. "Of course, for your sister's sake."

 

"For my sister's sake, and the realm's, and the..."

 

Oberyn trails off as the Rhaegar takes impulse and props himself out of the pool with his arms, stark naked, dripping water all over the marble floors as he sits next to him. His ethereal beauty is even more stunning in the nude. His pale, delicate skin unmarked but for the angry bruise on his chest. His wet silver hair clinging to his face. The salient muscles of his arms. Of his belly. He is silver down there too, his cock resting half-hard against his thigh. Oberyn cannot look away, not even when Rhaegar speaks.

 

"I take note of your selfless, touching concern," he says, and points at the tent in Oberyn's breeches.

 

They are sitting so close. Rhaegar's purple gaze locks with his as the Prince leans closer, a mocking grin on his thin lips. Daring him to. Oberyn can see the faint mark on his mouth where he struck him the night before. So he does it. He grabs Rhaegar's face in his hands and he kisses him. He hears a muffled gasp, but he cares not. He traces the Prince's lips with his tongue, savouring his surprise and licking the drops that linger from the bath. Rhaegar's tongue meets his, coyly, and that is all that Oberyn was waiting for, sucking on his lips as he deepens the kiss, so thoroughly his tight breeches are becoming painful.

 

He pulls back, out of breath, mesmerised by the fire in Rhaegar's eyes. He does not look a blushing maiden. He looks a man, a dragon, aroused and intent. His cock rests against his belly, fully hard, and when he wraps a hand around it to adjust it to the side, Oberyn gasps and is close to spilling he needs to shut his eyes.

 

He opens them again when Rhaegar grabs his wrist to pull him even closer. Oberyn only has to reach, really. He closes his hand around the tip of Rhaegar's cock, flashing him a questioning glance before giving him a jerk. He is long and thin between his fingers, and the moan that escapes his silver lips is glorious.

 

Oberyn has bedded many men and women over the years; he took pride to be a skilled lover, cunning, patient. But all he feels is this intoxicating need to rut against Rhaegar like a helpless adolescent, to kiss him sloppily, to stroke him and defile him with no true technique just so he can hear him moan against his ear this way. He kisses his neck, his face, his eyelids, losing himself in purple as he jerks him faster, and choking with pleasure when Rhaegar reaches too, to rub him over his breeches.

 

It is a messy affair as they roll on the marble floors, Oberyn half undressed and desperate to lose his breeches, and Rhaegar's slippery, naked body wrestling against him in a tangle of limbs and moans. The Prince's seed is suddenly warm on his palm, and only then does Oberyn realise he spilt too, in his breeches like a boy. He drops his head on Rhaegar's shoulder, out of breath, and dares to nibble at the pale skin.

 

"Won't you come to my bedchambers, my... My... Your Grace?"

 

"Rhaegar. You may call me Rhaegar."

 

* * *

 

 

"And then... when you feel her quicken around you... then... only then, you may let yourself go."

 

Oberyn thrusts into the wet tightness of the woman. Hard and fast, to make up for the distraction of his long narrated lesson. Eyes shut. She wraps her legs around him, trapping his hand against her, and he gives in to the blinding pleasure and spends himself into her with a groan. He nuzzles against her neck. He loves sex. He loves women. He loves having an audience.

 

Rhaegar sits propped up against some cushions, his back straight and proper as if he were in the middle of a courtroom and not in Oberyn's bed. His face is composed into the familiar expression of languid indifference but for his fiery gaze. He is erect, but he does not touch himself, and Oberyn has the irritating certainty that he spent the lesson watching him with scholarly interest rather than lust.

 

"Is it your turn, Your Grace?"  Tamyra Sand came with them from Dorne, Oberyn and Elia are both fond of her. She slides on the bed, crawling towards Rhaegar, her thigh slick with Oberyn's seed.

 

"No, ah, I..." Rhaegar shakes his head with a charming, apologetic smile. "I thank you, but no."

 

"Oh, come now," Oberyn protests, still lying face down. "You should bed her. Reading is not enough. Watching is not enough. You must practice."

 

"No," Rhaegar says. "I assure you I have watched and learned well. I taught myself fighting from a book, after all. You have abundantly demonstrated how to please a woman." He takes Tamyra's face in his hands. "You are lovely," he says. "But as much as it pains me I will only bed my lady wife."

 

Oberyn groans and buries his face in a cushion. "She will drink moon tea if you get her with child, if that's what worries you. Go on! Bed her! You're absurdly hard already. Your _lady wife_ will thank you for it."

 

Rhaegar hesitates visibly, his eyes going from Tamyra to Oberyn. She runs teasing fingers on the swollen tip of his cock.

 

"I can show you what Elia likes," she whispers, and Rhaegar gasps.

 

She guides his hands to her breasts, showing him how to fondle them in slow, circular motions. The Prince's reluctance thaws, and he slides closer to her.

 

"She likes it when you suck them," Tamyra purrs.

 

Rhaegar's thin lips close around a nipple and she arches against him. Oberyn rolls towards them. It is like watching him lose his maidenhead, in a way. He chuckles at the clumsy motions as he squeezes her teats, but then Rhaegar's fingers slip between Tamyra's folds, stroking her with an ease not even Oberyn has mastered. Harpist's hands, he realises. The girl is squirming and heaving under him, but Rhaegar pulls away from her quite abruptly.

 

"No, no," he says. "It mustn't be. Leave us, please."

 

"Oh, Your Grace, you were doing so well..."

 

"Please!"

 

Oberyn clenches his jaw. The moment she leaves, he will yell at him what a halfwit he is. It doesn't happen. When Tamyra shuts the door, Rhaegar lunges himself at him with such force Oberyn is slammed down on the bed, his body trapped under slender Targaryen limbs. The Prince's mouth devours his and his hands roam down Oberyn's naked chest.

 

"I couldn't, I didn't want," Rhaegar whispers against his lips. "Not 'til I'm wed. But you..."

 

He does not finish his sentence, his tongue ravishing Oberyn's nipples with the same ardour he showed with Tamyra, licking him down to his navel. Oberyn is too stunned to move, and he only regrets having spilt not long ago, though his cock already stirs with mild interest. Rhaegar's hardness presses against his thigh when he slides up to kiss him again, and the fiery tongue is such a distraction that Oberyn only realises his legs are spread under Rhaegar when it is much too late.

 

"Ah, Your Gr-, Rhaegar, I don't usually..."

 

Rhaegar pecks at his lips, an eyebrow raised in disbelief. "You would refuse me? Me? Your Prince?"

 

The purple eyes are laughing, and the silver locks brush against Oberyn's face. He smiles, too. "No," he says. "I would not."

 

He places his hands on Rhaegar's hips to guide him in, teaching him the motions, biting his lip not to scream when the Prince unwinds and thrusts and forgets himself inside of him.

 

* * *

 

"How dare you!"

 

Elia smacks the top of Oberyn's head.  He rubs at it and ducks to dodge the smacks, but she is swifter. She has always been. The next smack lands right behind his ear, and he groans in pain.

 

"Peace, sister!" Oberyn begs, lifting a useless arm to protect himself. "Peace! I trained him well, if anything."

 

"Trained him well, you scoundrel! I am sure you taught him skills I'll never get to use with him."

 

Oberyn thinks of Rhaegar's pale thighs, and his firm rear under his hands. He cannot help a sly smile, and Elia smacks him again.

 

"Have you no shame?!"

 

Oberyn laughs and steps back to escape her. "I assure you, it was in your best interest. He was a little reserved, before. He is less strung up now, and eager to wed you. To bed you. Only you." He lifts his hands in defeat. "He will not whore around. He will make a fine husband, Elia. I am very happy for you."

 

She lowers the hand she had lifted and shakes her head, letting out a short laugh.

 

"I don't know whether to hug you or to strangle you."

 

"It's safest to strangle me. Then you can be sure I'll not steal your husband from you," he teases, and wraps his arms around her to embrace her before she can hit him again.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I apologise for any canon mistakes, this is not my usual fandom.


End file.
